“Come along then,” he told her in an easy tone as he led the way down the corridor and into his study. He strode over to the side table. “What would you like then? Sherry?”
She swallowed hard as she watched him uncertainly from the doorway. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Her feelings toward him were becoming anything but friendly camaraderie. She wasn’t used to it—particularly not with him—and it absolutely, positively unnerved her to the very core of her being.
With a sudden sense of panic, she realized how frightened she was. What if he tried to kiss her again? How would she stop him without offending him? After all, she’d allowed him the liberty once already—surely he must now believe that he had the right to do it again. Her pulse quickened at the very thought of his lips touching hers again.
Another, more terrifying notion urged her to take a small step forward. What if he didn’t try to kiss her again? She’d barely been able to think of anything else all evening, and as much as it galled her to think that her mind would stray to such . . . such sinful pleasures . . . something deep within the core of her being desperately wished to be held by him again.
“I’m not a mind reader, you know.”
She shook her head, ridding herself of her reverie. What had he asked her? “Sorry . . . uhm . . . no, thank you. I think I’ll have a brandy, if you don’t mind.”
He arched an eyebrow as he studied her with a certain element of surprise twinkling in his eyes.
“What?” she asked as she cocked her head to one side, regaining her composure and striding confidently over to the same armchair that she had used the last time she’d shared a drink with him.
“I wouldn’t have thought you could stomach the stuff,” he told her, his voice telling her that he wasn’t at all convinced she’d chosen the right drink.
“I don’t make a habit out of it, but occasionally I do make an exception.” Her eyes misted slightly as she continued. “My father loved a glass of brandy in the evening. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I’m particularly fond of it myself, but the smell and the taste remind me of him. It helps me bring him a little bit closer.”
She smiled sweetly, obviously caught up in the memory of the man that Francis also remembered quite fondly. Lord Hillsbury had always had a pleasant air about him. He’d been exceedingly patient, not only with his own children, but also with all of their friends’. In fact, it had been Emily’s father, rather than his own, who had taught him how to carve a horse out of wood and how to fish. His own father had always been so incredibly busy.
A dark shadow crept over his face as he thought of his parent. What he wouldn’t have given to have had a father like Emily’s.
Shaking off his sudden change of mood, Francis poured Emily’s drink for her and set her glass on the table next to her chair.
She looked up, her mind returned to the present. “If you could travel to any place in the world, where would you go?” She asked without warning.
Francis stopped pouring his own drink in mid-stream, so surprised was he by her question. Most women he knew had no conversational skills that extended beyond gossip or fashion. What a refreshing change this was. He turned slowly toward her, obviously giving great thought to the question. “I believe I should like to go to Egypt,” he finally told her. “They say that the pyramids are quite magnificent.”
You’re magnificent.
Good grief! Why would she think such a thing? Thank God she hadn’t said it out loud.
“What did you say?” His eyes sparkled with great curiosity.
Lord help me, I did say it out loud.
“Hmmm?” Her voice took on a nonchalant ring to it. “Oh, I agree—they’re magnificent.”
His frown told her that he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t just been hoodwinked. Eager to take his mind off of it, she charged ahead. “Well, I should like to visit Greece—the source of civilization. To walk through the Acropolis, perhaps up the very same steps that Plato once climbed . . . to feel that unity with some of the greatest people history has ever seen . . . it would thrill me beyond compare.”
Stunned by her revelation, Francis was all but able to hide his astonishment. “Most women I know wouldn’t care a fig about dusty ruins and ancient philosophers. Why the interest?”
Emily shrugged as she took a sip of her brandy, the warm liquid leaving a simmering heat in its wake as it passed down her throat. “The real question is how you cannot be interested.” Emily met his eyes with sharp accuracy. There was something new in them that she hadn’t seen before. What was it? “Everything that we cherish, including the moral backbone of our society, has come from Greece.” Emily shifted slightly in her seat. “Do you mind if I take off my slippers? My feet are unbearably uncomfortable.”
“By all means,” he told her. He didn’t in the least bit mind seeing those dainty little feet of hers again, even though it was with stockings—one day he hoped she might allow him to remove those stockings for her—but that would have to wait a while yet.
“Have you ever read The Apology of Socrates?” she now asked.
Francis shook his head. “I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’ve never read it. I take it you have?” he inquired, his voice filled with wonderment.
“I have—along with many of the other dialogues.
“Both my parents were avid readers. They had a huge library that I frequented quite regularly.” She giggled softly, then smiled to herself. “I must admit I did develop a partial fondness for the dusty smell of books—quite an oddity, I suppose, considering most people can’t stand it.”
How odd this was, Francis thought. He was having a conversation with Emily Rutherford and he wasn’t the least bit bored—quite the contrary, really. How could he have forgotten how interesting she was? These were real topics for conversation—topics that mattered far more than finding out who was courting whom. These topics had some meat that one could sink one’s teeth into.
He suddenly wondered if she was enjoying herself as much as he. He certainly hoped so and found himself searching for other topics that she might like to discuss.
“I highly recommend it,” she said, still talking of the Socratic dialogue. “The way in which he defends himself would put any contemporary barrister to shame. Then, once sentenced, one cannot but marvel at his reasoning for not fearing to die. It’s so simple, yet so obvious—I must admit that I don’t think very many of our present-day writers, if any, can hold a candle to it.”
Her eyes sparkled with such enthusiasm—such passion—that he could not look away. She was stunning, absolutely stunning as she sat there, so elegant in her evening attire. And she was displaying a mind more complex even than many men of his acquaintance could lay claim to. How he would love to pass each and every day in her company, just listening to her speak.
He was enraptured by each and every part of her. There was no denying that he wanted her with every fiber of his being, so much so that he wondered at his own ability to stop from throwing himself at her feet. So painful was his need to kiss her, to touch her, to become a part of her. It was like a madness that was consuming him, a passion so strong that he was beyond all help and reason.
There was nothing for it. He would make her his—so strong was his resolve that he felt as if his life depended on it. But what if she didn’t want him? The frightful thought crossed his mind, lingering as if to mock him.
She had already reacted to some of his gestures—and to his kiss. But it wasn’t more than what any other warm-blooded woman would have felt. No—he needed to know if her blood burned as hot for him as his did for her.
Carefully setting his glass down on the table, Francis rose to his feet and stepped toward her. She looked apprehensive as she leaned back in her seat, as if shying away from him. Then, kneeling before her, he took her hand in his. “You are an exceedingly interesting woman,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss against her hand.
She did not pull away, though she stiffened at his touch. H
er eyes darted toward the door, which still stood ajar. “We must not, Francis—what if someone sees us?”
When he looked up at her, he immediately saw the blush that had risen to her cheeks, the expectant look in her eyes. Oh yes, he had an effect on her all right, but more important than that, she wasn’t attempting to flee, no matter her apprehension. “There’s no need for you to worry about that, Emily,” he whispered. “Genevieve has been asleep for hours, and Parker has retired to his quarters. As for everyone else . . . they’re still out. So you see . . . we’re quite alone.” Holding her hand gently, he turned it over and pressed another kiss against her wrist. A small gasp escaped her lips.
Ripples of heat flooded her body as his hot lips burned against her skin. It was as if her heart had stopped the moment he kissed her hand, then taken flight at an alarming pace as he lifted his eyes to meet hers.
His eyes were hot with desire as they roamed over her, taking in each and every part of her, from her succulent lips to the dip between her shoulder and her collarbone.
When his eyes finally settled on the rise and fall of her breasts, feasting on the way they swelled beneath her bodice, delightful tingles spread like wildfire—from the tips of her toes, darting straight up to her nipples.
He looked like a hungry wolf watching a lamb—so hungry for her that her mouth went instantly dry. She licked her lips, all sense of time and space fleeing from her mind. Never before had she felt so alive, so wanted by another person, so wrought with passion and urgent desire—it thrilled her to the bone as delightful shivers ran up and down her spine.
And there was simply no denying it. She wanted this pleasure, this moment of impulse. But it was more than that. She wanted him; oh God, how she wanted him. At that very moment, nothing else mattered. There was no room in her head for logical thought or common sense or anything else that wasn’t Francis.
Keeping his eyes on her, he let go of her hand, placing it gently back in her lap. And that was when he knew that she yearned for him to do so much more to her than just hold her hand. The look of loss and disappointment that filled her eyes strengthened his resolve.
Before she might protest, before she might see reason, he leaned toward her, capturing her head with his hands, and kissed her fiercely on her luscious pink lips. She gasped like a swimmer coming up for air when he moved away, trailing soft kisses along her exquisite jawline and down her lovely neck.
“Dear, sweet Emily,” he murmured as his lips brushed gently across her skin. Her breath came in quick bursts that set his soul on fire. So sensitive was she to his touch that when his hand pressed down against her thigh, he felt her body tremble.
“So beautiful,” he whispered as he placed small butterfly kisses on the mounds of her breasts, paying tribute to each of them with great reverence.
He waited for her to push him away—certain that she would shy away from his obvious intentions. But instead he felt her fingers raking through his hair and pressing him toward her. Dear God in heaven—how was he to control himself when her passion so ardently matched his own?
As a gentleman, he had no desire to ruin her, but as a man, he didn’t give a toss about the consequences. She was like a sweet piece of fruit, just ready for the picking. A strong sense of responsibility loomed in the distance. He determined to do the right thing, but not before allowing himself one final delicacy.
Moving his hands up along her sides, he ran his thumbs heavily against her breasts, forcing them upward, her ripe nipples popping out from beneath her bodice. His eyes blazed as they gorged on the crimson buds. Then, all other thoughts swept aside, he buried his face against her.
She moaned with pleasure as he drew her into his mouth, sucking lightly, his tongue soft and gentle against her skin.
Pulling away with unparalleled willpower, he looked up at her. Her eyes were dizzy with longing—a longing he recognized as that carnal need to sate an unrelenting desire to mate.
He wanted nothing more than to satisfy both of their cravings, but an inner voice called for him to stop—though not without allowing himself one last kiss.
As he brushed his lips against her, she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, drawing him closer. She wished he would have lingered longer at her breasts. Never before had she felt such eager yearning for something that she did not fully comprehend. An ache had settled between her thighs and she knew that only Francis had the means by which to placate it.
Yet as he nibbled on her lips and ran his tongue across them, all focus went to her mouth. He teased her lips apart, then pushed his tongue inside to tangle with hers. There was a potent flavor of brandy on both their breaths as they each explored the inside of the other’s mouth with fervent pleasure.
Francis suddenly paused, pulled back, and glanced toward the half-closed door.
“I thought I heard something,” he said with some degree of frustration.
She stilled and held her breath to listen. A peel of laughter suddenly reached them, coming seemingly from the front hall. “Oh God,” she exclaimed. “It must be Beatrice and Claire returned home.”
With agile dexterity, Francis leapt away from her, rose to his full height, and adjusted his waistcoat. He looked rather stiff and awkward as he tried to find a place for his hands. He eventually clasped them behind his back, standing at attention, before realizing that he was not the only one doing so. Without further ado, he promptly sat down on the chair closest to him, and quickly crossed his legs. Then, casting a glimpse in Emily’s direction, his eyes widened as he saw that her nipples were still protruding from behind her gown. Voices grew louder as they approached. He spoke her name, but she failed to hear him—too flustered, no doubt, to notice. Exasperated, he stomped his foot loudly on the floor. Her eyes shot toward him. With a quick nod of his head, coupled with an elaborate wave of his hand, he made her aware of her indecent exposure.
She had only just managed to make herself presentable and placed her glass of brandy to her lips in an attempt to conceal all evidence of their kiss, when Beatrice pushed through the door, her elegant gown swooshing about her ankles as she entered the study with a marvelous smile. “We saw that the light was on so we thought we might join you. Are you all right, though? We heard a loud thud just a moment ago.”
Francis cleared his throat in hopes of hiding his smile. He wasn’t sure that he’d be able to help Emily, though. Her eyes were already creased with signs of laughter as she peaked out from behind the brim of her glass. “Yes, yes, we’re quite all right. I merely dropped a book—clumsy of me, really—please, do join us.”
“What was it?” Claire asked as she made her way past Beatrice. Jonathan followed her inside and made his way straight to the side table.
“Hmmm? What was what?” Francis asked, distracted by Jonathan, who was making a racket out of inspecting all the bottles.
“The book, of course,” Claire insisted. “The one you say you dropped.”
“Oh that—it was The Apology of Socrates, I believe.” A muffled sound was heard coming from Emily’s direction as she did her best to choke back the laughter that threatened to spill out of her.
“I love that book,” Beatrice commented. She then frowned. “It’s not very big, though—hardly big enough to make such a loud sound. Are you sure that it was indeed The Apology of Socrates that you dropped?”
Why in God’s name he was having this harebrained conversation was beyond him. Nevertheless, it seemed as if he was unlikely to escape from it, so he straightened his spine and ploughed on. “Well, it was actually a compilation of all the Socratic dialogues—including the apology—thus making it a large enough book to produce the sound you heard.” Taking a brief breath of air, Francis continued like a runaway coach—not allowing anyone the opportunity to interrupt. “So, how was your evening? Splendid, I take it, judging from your smiles. These affairs can be quite taxing; in fact, I generally find myself exhausted by the time the season draws to an end. But it doesn’t seem to have taken a toll on either
of you yet. You look as if you’ve just had the time of your life.”
The sisters immediately launched into a detailed description, while Francis let out a slow sigh of relief and touched his hand to his forehead. The topic had been changed. He looked over at Emily, sending her an admonishing scowl for her lack of self-restraint. She replied with a merciless smile that had his insides tied up in knots within a heartbeat.
She was truly remarkable, and she had let him kiss her. It was as if part of his heart had softened and opened, allowing her in. But aside from the kiss, he had thoroughly enjoyed their conversation. Not only had she told him something that he did not already know, but she had also given him something to think about. He wondered what else he might learn from her, given the time and assuming that she would be happy to talk to him again. With an impish smile, he wagered that she would.
“Claire danced two more sets after you left.” She nodded her head in Jonathan’s direction. “Mr. Rosedale was kind enough to take pity on me and so I also enjoyed a waltz.”
“Really, Miss Rutherford, if anyone took pity on anyone, then you were surely the one taking pity on me. I was so nervous when I asked you, for I was sure that you would say no.”
Emily wondered, was that a blush in Beatrice’s cheeks? It certainly looked like it. She had never in her life known Beatrice to color with embarrassment or self-awareness—or for any other reason, for that matter. She would be sure to ask her about it later.
“Would anyone care for a drink?” Jonathan asked as he raised a carafe in the air to highlight his question.
“A sherry for me, if you don’t mind,” Beatrice told him.
“And for me too,” Claire added, then turned sharply toward Emily. “So, what have the two of you been up to all this time?”
Brandy sprayed from Emily’s mouth as she coughed and sputtered.
“Oh dear, Emily,” Beatrice exclaimed, rushing to her sister’s side and relieving her of her glass before she did any more damage to the silk carpet. “Are you all right?”
How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back Page 11